


Back Room

by howelleheir



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Anal Sex, Anatoli Ruins Bruce's Nice Clothes, Barebacking, Belts, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Casual Sex, Choking, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Facials, M/M, No Negotiation, Oral Fixation, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Tattoo Kink, Walk Of Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 16:07:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6665269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howelleheir/pseuds/howelleheir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce fails to clone Anatoli's phone. He'll need to offer a little more than small-talk to keep him around long enough to try again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back Room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mollynoble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollynoble/gifts).



> Based on an Ask Prompt from the lovely MollyNoble: 
> 
> "What if Bruce had to work a little harder to clone Anatoli Knyazev's phone? Bruce getting his very nice suit dirty and justifying it to himself as 'for the mission'."
> 
> It was supposed to be a drabble, and yet, here we are.

 

DEVICE CLONING FAILED.

_Shit._

Bruce followed Knyazev at a distance, going over the exchange in his head. Just a few more seconds and he would have had what he needed. Knyazev had seemed interested in the conversation, and then suddenly, he wasn’t anymore. What set him off? Suspicion? No, Bruce had been careful. He was casual. Knyazev had only bolted after he mentioned the ballerina.

It clicked when Bruce thought over Knyazev’s criminal record. Before all the various charges related to his occupation, there had been one other - his first prison sentence, Russia in 1992. He’d served a year on a sodomy charge before the law was struck down.

So, from Knyazev’s point of view, a handsome stranger had stared at him from across the ring, followed him to the bar to collect his winnings, gotten just a little friendlier than was strictly usual in this kind of establishment, and made a comment about “balancing accounts”. That had been the point in the conversation when Knyazev had turned fully and made direct eye contact. He had interpreted it as an invitation. When Bruce had brought a fling with a woman into the conversation, it had muddied the waters too much to make the potential payoff worth the risk.

In that case, Bruce would just have to un-muddy them. He seriously doubted that he could corner Knyazev for another friendly chat without offering up something more enticing than small-talk. If this was his only in, he would have to take it.

He quickened his pace to catch up with Knyazev, who was just on the outskirts of the crowd forming around another match.

“Hey,” said Bruce, catching his arm. Knyazev turned, looking ready to throw a punch. He relaxed somewhat when he saw who had grabbed him, but still left an eyebrow raised. “I think I gave you the wrong idea back there. The ballerina was the exception, not the rule.” _Come on, Bruce, no time to waste being coy_. “Does this place have a back room or something?”

Knyazev’s eyes narrowed. Bruce suddenly realized that he might have made a big leap, that maybe Knyazev wasn’t interested, and he had just blown his only chance at getting his phone cloned. For Christ’s sake, that sodomy conviction could have been a false charge. Knyazev was a big guy, definitely armed, and probably had a lot of friends hanging around. If it came down to it, Bruce was sure he could take whatever they could throw at him, but a fight like that would make a scene. Just as he braced himself to get punched, Knyazev’s expression softened into a little smirk that didn’t quite reach the scarred half of his face.

“Follow me.”

Knyazev led Bruce through the throng to a narrow wooden door toward the back of the building. Behind it was an improvised dressing room - mismatched couches and folding chairs, tables strewn with people’s belongings. A few young men were seated at the tables, one of them changing out of his street clothes, one wrapping his knuckles, and a third at the grimy mirror, stitching a split in his lower lip. Knyazev shrugged off his jacket, which he tossed onto the longer of the couches, and inclined his head toward the door.

“Go for a smoke. I need the room,” he said. The occupants hurriedly finished what they were doing and filed out the door, which Knyazev locked behind them. While his back was turned, Bruce quickly whipped out his phone and hit _try again_. They were alone in the room, no other phones to interfere with the process; it should work this time. He just needed to keep Knyazev busy for sixty seconds and then find an excuse to get out. He had just barely managed to slip the phone back into his pocket when Knyazev rounded on him, taking Bruce by the jaw, his rings digging deep into the flesh.

“Do you have a name?” he asked, voice low, his free arm wrapping tightly around Bruce’s waist.

Bruce smirked, arching into Knyazev’s grip. “Friends call me Matches.”

“Hm…” Knyazev hummed, grabbing a handful of Bruce’s ass. “What does your wife call you?”

“Who said I had a wife?”

Letting go of Bruce’s jaw, Knyazev let his fingers drag down his throat and over his chest. “I know your type, _Matches_. It’s not about winning money. You come to a place like this to get away from your desk job and nagging wife, watch pretty young boys rough each other up. Find a man who can make you feel small. Am I wrong?”

“Right on the money,” said Bruce. He wrapped his arms around Knyazev’s waist. _Armed. Probably a small semi-auto_.

Knyazev took him by the collar and gave him a kiss that tasted like bitter liquor and was all teeth and fierce heat. “Over here,” he said, inclining his head toward the couch and dragging Bruce after him. Bruce played along, followed his lead, landing on his knees between Knyazev’s spread thighs.

_Thirty more seconds, that’s all,_ he promised himself as a hand tangled in his hair, pulled him down and rubbed his face against the seam of Knyazev’s slacks, burying him in his scent.

“You like that?” the Russian asked, jerking Bruce back by the hair.

His reply of, “Yes,” came out a little more breathless and eager than he intended, and Knyazev chuckled as took his jaw in hand again, this time pushing his thumb past Bruce’s lips. He tucked an ankle between Bruce’s legs and lifted his knee to press the top of one immaculate dress shoe against him, not quite enough pressure to hurt, but almost. He wet his thumb on Bruce’s tongue, swept it across his mouth, then plunged back inside. Bruce closed his lips around it and sucked, earning an appreciative purr from Knyazev, who pulled out and brought his palm down twice against Bruce’s cheek, just hard enough to send a jolt straight to his cock. Keeping a possessive hand on Bruce’s neck, Knyazev unbuckled his belt and pulled it free of his belt-loops. Bruce went for the button himself, which earned him another, harder, strike to the face.

“Did I tell you to do that?” he snapped, lifting Bruce’s chin with two fingers like an unruly child.

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Try something like that again, and you will be.”

Knyazev popped open his button, running a hand over himself and squeezing, his eyes locked on Bruce, who couldn’t manage to stop himself from licking his lips as he watched the ink dance with every movement of Knyazev’s lean fingers. He stroked himself until he was hard and straining against his zipper, then moved up his torso to unbutton his shirt, revealing tattoos Bruce hadn’t seen pictures of - eight-pointed stars underneath his collar-bones and a tableau featuring the Madonna and Child in front of an Orthodox church spanning from his upper-chest to just below his navel, resting on top of a pair of open eyes set against the sharp lines of his iliac crest, between them, bold lettering reading, **зверь**. He barely had an inch of unmarked flesh.

“Hands behind your back,” he said. Bruce obeyed, and Knyazev picked up his belt again, leaning forward and looping it around Bruce’s neck, pulling it tight. He gave a sharp tug and simultaneously lifted his heel, pitching Bruce forward into his lap. “Suck me.”

Leaving his hands clasped behind him, Bruce closed his lips around Knyazev’s zipper and, as he slid it down, realized with an aching pang that all he was wearing underneath was more ink. Bruce worked his teeth over the crease of one hip. The belt tightening around his throat, pulling him center, told him to hurry up, so he dragged his tongue up the ridge of Knyazev’s cock, sweeping over the head a few times before sucking it into his mouth and then pulling back, wetting it like that, a little deeper every time, inch by inch, until it hit the back of his throat. He pulled all the way back, releasing the head with a wet _pop_ , and then settled into a moderate rhythm, guided by Knyazev’s foot, still rocking into him with a pressure and friction that was just enough to be frustrating.

As Knyazev’s hips started to roll against him involuntarily, Bruce took a slow, deep breath through his nose and made a tight fist around his left thumb to dull his gag reflex before taking Knyazev into his throat and swallowing. The tight contraction drew a deep groan from Knyazev, who grabbed a fistful of Bruce’s hair and pushed him down until his lips were flush against his body, tightened the belt around his neck mercilessly and fucked his throat in short thrusts. Bruce couldn’t even get the slightest trickle of air, and his vision started to go black at the edges just before Knyazev pushed him away with a hiss. Bright flashes danced across his eyes as the air rushed back into his lungs.

“Stand up,” said Knyazev, taking the belt from Bruce’s neck and tugging at his collar. “Jacket off.”

Bruce staggered to his feet, rubbing his aching jaw. His head was swimming. He felt drugged. He might have thought he _had_ been drugged if he had drank anything, even water, at the bar, but this wasn’t chemical. It was all Knyazev, the way he could manhandle Bruce and push him to his limit and treat him like he owned him. He shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it over a chair.

“Over here.” Knyazev pushed him toward the table in front of the mirror, and Bruce leaned on it against his palms to steady his weak knees. Knyazev was strong. In a fair fight, Bruce couldn’t say for certain that he would beat him.

Knyazev jerked Bruce’s pants and boxers over the swell of his ass, leaving his cock pinned to his stomach in the front, and shoved him down by the neck onto the table. As he pressed his fingertips against him, he bent forward to rummage through a set of plastic drawers underneath the table, and came back with a small packet of lube. He pushed a little into Bruce with two fingers, twisting them to slick him up, then poured the rest into his palm and coated his cock. Bruce shifted his weight to rest against the table, arching up and relaxing as much as he could before he felt Knyazev press against him, working his way in just about as fast as he could take it, and not even giving him a chance to adjust. Bruce bit back a groan and dragged his fingertips along the mirror, the edge of the table, scrabbling for anything he could grip onto as Knyazev stretched and filled him.

“Touch yourself,” Knyazev commanded as he wrapped his belt underneath Bruce, around his hips, gripped either end like a sling, and started to thrust, shallowly at first, but deeper the more Bruce’s body yielded. Panting heavily, Bruce tucked an arm underneath himself and wrapped his hand around his aching cock, already wet with pre-come from all the teasing, indirect stimulation. He kept time with Knyazev’s brutal thrusts, and the sensations seemed to merge as he rocked his hips back and forth between Knyazev’s thick cock and his own tight grip, desperate and begging for more with incoherent, broken curses.

Knyazev shifted both ends of the belt into one hand to lean forward, his chest pressed hot against Bruce’s back through his sweat-soaked shirt, and said, “Come for me,” his voice breathy and low, and that was all the encouragement Bruce needed before his belly coiled tight and his ass clenched down hard and fast and his come pumped out of him, into his palm, over his belly, and down the front of his pants.

Until Bruce was fully spent, Knyazev kept thrusting, slow and deep, then pulled out entirely and laid a palm on Bruce’s shoulder. It didn’t take much force at all for Bruce’s legs to give out, and he was on his knees. Knyazev guided him wordlessly to turn and face him, rested a palm on the top of his head and jerked himself against Bruce’s cheek. His cock was dark and swollen from holding out for so long, and after just a few firm strokes, he was spilling over Bruce’s lips and chin and crisp dress-shirt with a deep growl.

Knyazev gave a long sigh and ran a hand through Bruce’s hair before buttoning his shirt and tucking it in. “I hope to see you again soon,” he said as he replaced his belt, gun, and jacket.

All Bruce could manage was a, “Mhn,” as he straightened his own clothes. The pants and shirt were ruined, but if he buttoned his jacket, he could at least cover that up well enough to make it back home. He’d have to throw them away somewhere else. This was a conversation he didn’t _ever_ need to have with Alfred.

As soon as Knyazev opened the door to leave, the fighters were crowding back in. Bruce deliberately avoided eye contact with them as he made his way out, a little unsteadily. He chose not to acknowledge the low whistle from one of them.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen.

DEVICE CLONING SUCCESSFUL.

He tried to tell himself that at least it had been worth it.

It might have been worth it even if it had failed.


End file.
